Tuesday Afternoons
by Archived-AndInactive
Summary: Nobody knows where Kurt goes on Tuesday afternoons.


**This is just a reflective little Kurt-centric oneshot that came to me in a dream. All my stories seem to be coming to me in dreams, lately.**

**This story is a bit off from my usual style, so bear with me if it seems awkward.**

**Thanks to britchenhauer for being my beta.**

**Every time you don't review Karofsky strangles something small and cute!**

Nobody knows where Kurt goes on Tuesday afternoons.

He disappears for around an hour right after school; just up and leaves. No phone calls, no texts, nothing. He's never told anyone where he goes, but nobody's ever asked either.

Every Tuesday afternoon, Kurt picks a flower. Just one.

Then, he goes and visits his mother.

Well, his mother and Mr. Ryans.

Mr. Ryans is the old man whose wife happens to be buried right next to Mrs. Hummel.

It started as just an acknowledgement of each other's presence while mantaining a quiet, respectful air. A nod of the head or a weak smile, both filled with a deep understanding that could only be shared by two people who have experienced the same degree of tragedy.

Mr. Ryans was the first one to initiate a conversation. Kurt had endured a particularly unpleasant dance class that day, and was subsequently walking with a bit of a limp. He was thirteen.

_"You all right there, son?" Mr. Ryans had asked, his voice rough with age but compassionate._

_"Oh, yes sir. Just pulled a muscle earlier, I think." Kurt had responded crisply and formally, unsure of how to treat the conversation._

_The elderly man grunted._

That simple exchange sparked the strangest and most meaningful friendship Kurt could remember experiencing. It was those odd situations, those people you talk to - though you wouldn't ordinarily have ever said a word to them - due only to extraordinary circumstances that create the most unique and heartwarming bonds.

So began the twisted companionship between Kurt Hummel and Adam Ryans. Since that day, slowly, the nature of the infamous Tuesday Afternoon Visits began to change. By the time Kurt had friends to care about him disappearing for an hour a week, he no longer went just to visit his mother. No, just as much, he went to chat with Mr. Ryans. The two of them would sit in the grass, leaning up against the headstones, heedless of the weather - and even the damage to Kurt's clothes on occasion - to exchange stories.

_"Do you think they talk about us, too?" Kurt asked one summer afternoon shortly after his fifteenth birthday. "Your wife and my mom? Like, what if they're sitting up there in heaven, just drinking martinis and laughing at the stories we tell about them. Maybe telling some of their own."_

_Mr. Ryans had laughed. "Not a chance, kid."_

_"Why?"_

_"Claire hated martinis."_

Mr. Ryans always had more stories to tell; after all, he'd known his wife for more than twice Kurt's lifetime. The young countertenor always listened, partially because he expected that he was probably the only person in Mr. Ryans' life that still did.

Kurt made up for his lack of stories about his mom by talking about his everyday life. He would relay his week to Mr. Ryans as efficiently as possible, rarely skewing the details. He knew the old man wouldn't judge him, and he felt an enormous weight lifted every time he confided in his friend.

_One day, around the middle of Kurt's Freshman year, Mr. Ryans had turned to Kurt and said, "You're different from most kids, you know that?"_

_Kurt turned his face upwards towards the clouds and smiled. "I can't go a day without being reminded."_

And then, the next week:

_"I had a brother who was different. He was like you."_

_Kurt felt a sudden pang of an emotion he couldn't identify. Fear? He knew he had nothing to fear from Mr. Ryans, but the thought of anyone finding out what he was terrified him. But from his old friend it seemed almost... comforting._

_"He had a hard life, I know. When I was young, we were always taught that it's wrong to be different. That everyone should conform and be the same. I lived by it, just like I was supposed to. Just like all the 'normal' people did. But my brother... he, well, he couldn't. He tried to fit in, but it destroyed him. I remember thinking how wrong it was, that he had to fight so hard to be what others are just by nature. I know people always say that times have changed, but it's still hard to be different. That will never change."_

_Kurt wondered if Mr. Ryans had figured out his secret. He was afraid to ask._

Mr. Ryans got more sluggish over the years. Sometime during Kurt's Sophomore year, he began walking with a cane. Over the following summer, he began to visit only every other week.

_"My wife didn't suffer any tragic accident," he had told Kurt that July, "She wasn't sick, she wasn't falling apart, she didn't hurt herself. She just... didn't wake up one morning. It was simply her being old." He paused. He and Kurt had never discussed the deaths of their respective loved ones before, and he was walking on a tightrope with both of their emotions. "We're the same age." He finished flatly._

_Kurt put two and two together rather quickly._

_"I know you probably have friends and family that love you very much, and are there for you no matter what." He continued. The first two people that popped into Kurt's mind were his father and Mercedes. He nodded slowly. "Well, son, I don't. Not really. Just you."_

_This made Kurt's heart swell and break at the same time. He was still getting used to the feeling of being wanted, but he sympathized with the old man. There had certainly been times when he felt very alone._

_"I want you to promise me something, Kurt."_

_"Yes, Mr. Ryans?"_

_"I want you to still come here and visit and talk to me, even after my time. Every Tuesday afternoon. Can you do that for me?"_

_"Yes sir, I promise," Kurt had replied, smiling. Mr. Ryans made him feel needed and he enjoyed that, even if it was a somewhat somber topic._

_"I know I'll be buried right here, next to Claire. So you don't have to walk far. Just stop by and say hello every now and again when you come over to talk to your mom."_

_And Kurt didn't say it, but he knew that he would have gone to visit him even if he were buried on the other side of town._

As another year passed, Mr. Ryans grew older and weaker. Even so, he refused to cut back on visits any more than he already had, and dutifully hobbled over to the graveyard to visit every other Tuesday, where he always found Kurt waiting for him.

Inevitably, one fall day early into Kurt's senior year, Mr. Ryans stopped showing up. For five long weeks, Kurt visited his mother in silence.

The week after that, there was a new grave in the row.

From then on, Kurt brought three flowers every Tuesday afternoon.


End file.
